A little bank and leaps behind me, whips
My purse away, and with a sudden jerk,
I know not how, threw me at least three yards
Out of my saddle. I never was so robbed
In all my life.
COBHAM.
I am very sorry, sir, for your mischance. We will send our warrant forth, to stay such suspicious persons as shall be found. Then, master Butler, we will attend you.
BUTLER.
I humbly thank your lordship, I will attend you.
ACT II. SCENE I. The same.
[Enter the Sumner.]
SUMNER.
I have the law to warrant what I do; and though the Lord Cobham be a noble man, that dispenses not with law: I dare serve process were a five noble men. Though we Sumners make sometimes a mad slip in a corner with a pretty wench, a Sumner must not go always by seeing: a man may be content to hide his eyes, where he may feel his profit. Well, this is my Lord Cobham’s house if I can devise to speak with him; if not, I’ll clap my citation upon’s door: so my lord of Rochester bid me. But me thinks here comes one of his men.
[Enter Harpoole.]
HARPOOLE.
Welcome, good fellow, welcome; who wouldst thou speak with?
SUMNER.
With my lord Cobham I would speak, if thou be one of his men.
HARPOOLE.
Yes, I am one of his men, but thou canst not speak with my lord.
SUMNER.
May I send to him then?
HARPOOLE.
I’ll tell thee that, when I know thy errand.
SUMNER.
I will not tell my errand to thee.
HARPOOLE.
Then keep it to thy self, and walk like a knave as thou camest.
SUMNER.
I tell thee, my lord keeps no knaves, sirra.
HARPOOLE.
Then thou servest him not, I believe: what lord is thy master?
SUMNER
My lord of Rochester.
HARPOOLE.
In good time! And what wouldst thou have with my lord Cobham?
SUMNER.
I come, by virtue of a process, to ascite him to appear before my lord in the court at Rochester.
HARPOOLE.
[Aside.] Well, God grant me patience! I could eat this
conger. My lord is not at home; therefore it were good,
Sumner, you carried your process back.
SUMNER.
Why, if he will not be spoken withal, then will I leave it here; and see you that he take knowledge of it.
HARPOOLE.
Swounds, you slave, do you set up your bills here! go to;
take it down again. Doest thou know what thou dost?
Dost thou know on whom thou servest process?
SUMNER.
Yes, marry, do I; Sir John Old-castle, Lord Cobham.
HARPOOLE.
I am glad thou knowest him yet: and, sirra, dost not thou know, that the lord Cobham is a brave lord, that keeps good beef and beer in his house, and every day feeds a hundred poor people at’s gate, and keeps a hundred tall fellows?
SUMNER.
What’s that to my process?
HARPOOLE.
Marry, this, sir! is this process parchment?
SUMNER.
Yes, marry.
HARPOOLE.
And this seal wax?
SUMNER.
It is so.
HARPOOLE.
If this be parchment, & this wax, eat you this parchment and this wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax: Sirra Sumner, dispatch; devour, sirra, devour.
SUMNER.
I am my lord of Rochester’s Sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shalt answer it.
HARPOOLE.
Sirra, no railing, but betake you to your teeth. Thou shalt eat no worse than thou bringst with thee: thou bringst it for my lord, and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thy self?
SUMNER.
Sirra, I brought it not my lord to eat.
HARPOOLE.
O, do you sir me now? all’s one for that: but I’ll make you eat it, for bringing it.
SUMNER.
I cannot eat it.
HARPOOLE.
Can you not? sblood I’ll beat you until you have a stomach.
[He beats him.]
SUMNER.
O hold, hold, good master serving-man! I will eat it.
HARPOOLE.
Be champing, be chawing, sir; or I’ll chaw you, you rogue! the purest of the honey! Tough wax is the purest of the honey.
SUMNER.
O Lord, sir! oh! oh!
[He eats.]
HARPOOLE.
Feed, feed! wholesome, rogue, wholesome! Cannot you, like an honest Sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your Bailiffs’ rents, but you must come to a noble man’s house with process? Sblood! if thy seal were as broad as the lead that covers Rochester church, thou shouldst eat it.
SUMNER.
O, I am almost choked! I am almost choked!
HARPOOLE.
Who’s within there? will you shame my Lord? is there no beer in the house? Butler! I say.
[Enter Butler.]
BUTLER.
Here, here.
HARPOOLE.
Give him Beer.
[He drinks.]
There; tough old sheepskin’s bare, dry meat.
SUMNER.
O sir, let me go no further; I’ll eat my word.
HARPOOLE.
Yea, marry, sit! so I mean: you shall eat more than your own word, for I’ll make you eat all the words in the process. Why, you drab monger, cannot the secrets of all the wenches in a shire serve your turn, but you must come hither with a citation? with a pox! I’ll cite you. [He has then done.] A cup of sack for the Sumner.
BUTLER.
Here, sir, here.
HARPOOLE.
Here, slave, I drink to thee.
SUMNER.
I thank you, sir.
HARPOOLE.
Now if thou findst thy stomach well — because thou shalt see my Lord keep’s meat in’s house — if thou wilt go in, thou shalt have a piece of beef to the break fast.
SUMNER.
No, I am very well, good Master serving-man, I thank you; very well sir.
HARPOOLE.
I am glad on’t. Then be walking towards Rochester to keep your stomach warm; and Sumner, if I may know you disturb a good wench within this Diocese; if I do not make thee eat her petticoat, if there were four yards of Kentish cloth in’t, I am a villain.
SUMNER.
God be with you, Master serving-man.
[Exit.]
HARPOOLE.
Farewell, Sumner.
[Enter Constable.]
CONSTABLE.
God save you Master Harpoole.
HARPOOLE.
Welcome, Constable, welcome, Constable; what news with thee?
CONSTABLE.
And’t please you, Master Harpoole, I am to make hue and cry, for a fellow with one eye that has robbed two Clothiers, and am to crave your hindrance, for to search all suspected places; and they say there was a woman in the company.
HARPOOLE.
Hast thou been at the Alehouse? hast thou sought there?
CONSTABLE.
I durst not search, sir, in my Lord Cobham’s liberty, except I had some of his servants, which are for my warrant.
HARPOOLE.
An honest Constable! an honest Constable! Call forth him that keeps the Alehouse here.
CONSTABLE.
Ho! who’s within there?
[Enter Ale-man.]
ALE MAN.
Who calls there? come near a God’s name! Oh, is’t you,
Master Constable and Master Harpoole? you are welcome
with all my heart. What make you here so early this morning?
HARPOOLE.
Sirra, what strangers do you lodge? there is a robbery done this mor
ning, and we are to search for all suspected persons.
ALE MAN.
God’s bores! I am sorry for’t: yfaith, sir, I lodge no body but a good honest merry priest, — they call him sir John a Wrotham — and a handsome woman that is his niece, that he says he has some suit in law for; and as they go up & down to London, sometimes they lie at my house.
HARPOOLE.
What, is he here in thy house now?
ALE MAN.
She is, sir. I promise you, sir, he is a quiet man; and because he will not trouble too many rooms, he makes the woman lie every night at his bed’s feet.
HARPOOLE.
Bring her forth! Constable, bring her forth! let’s see her, let’s see her.
ALE MAN.
Dorothy, you must come down to Master Constable.
DOLL.
Anon, forsooth.
[She enters.]
HARPOOLE.
Welcome, sweet lass, welcome.
DOLL.
I thank you, good Master serving-man, and master
Constable also.
HARPOOLE.
A plump girl by the mass, a plump girl! Ha, Doll, ha!
Wilt thou forsake the priest, and go with me?
CONSTABLE.
A! well said, Master Harpoole; you are a merry old man, yfaith. Yfaith, you will never be old. Now, by the mack, a pretty wench indeed!
HARPOOLE.
Ye old mad merry Constable, art thou advised of that. Ha, well said, Doll! fill some ale here.
DOLL.
[Aside.] Oh, if I wist this old priest would not stick to me, by Jove, I would ingle this old serving-man.
HARPOOLE.
Oh you old mad colt! yfaith, I’ll feak you! fill all the pots in the house there.
CONSTABLE.
Oh, well said, Master Harpoole! you are heart of oak when all’s done.
HARPOOLE.
Ha, Doll, thou hast a sweet pair of lips, by the mass.
DOLL.
Truly you are a most sweet old man, as ever I saw; by my troth, you have a face, able to make any woman in love with you.
HARPOOLE.
Fill, sweet Doll; I’ll drink to thee.
DOLL.
‘I pledge you, sir, and thank you therefore,
And I pray you let it come.’
HARPOOLE.
[Embracing her.] Doll, canst thou love me? A mad merry lass! would to God I had never seen thee!
DOLL.
I warrant you, you will not out of my thoughts this
twelvemonth; truly you are as full of favour, as a man may be.
Ah, these sweet grey locks! by my troth, they are most lovely.
CONSTABLE.
God boores, master Harpoole, I will have one buss too.
HARPOOLE.
No licking for you, Constable! hand off, hand off!
CONSTABLE.
Bur lady, I love kissing as well as you.
DOLL.
Oh, you are an odd boy; you have a wanton eye of your own! ah, you sweet sugar lipped wanton, you will win as many women’s hearts as come in your company.
[Enter Priest.]
WROTHAM.
Doll, come hither.
HARPOOLE.
Priest, she shall not.
DOLL.
I’ll come anon, sweet love.
WROTHAM.
Hand off, old fornicator.
HARPOOLE.
Vicar, I’ll sit here in spite of thee. Is this fit stuff for a priest to carry up and down with him?
WROTHAM.
Ah, sirra, dost thou not know that a good fellow parson may have a chapel of ease, where his parish Church is far off?
HARPOOLE.
You whoreson stoned Vicar!
WROTHAM.
You old stale ruffin! you lion of Cotswold!
HARPOOLE.
Swounds, Vicar, I’ll geld you!
[Flies upon him.]
CONSTABLE.
Keep the King’s peace!
DOLL.
Murder! murder! murder!
ALE MAN.
Hold! as you are men, hold! for God’s sake be quiet! Put up your weapons; you draw not in my house.
HARPOOLE.
You whoreson bawdy priest!
WROTHAM.
You old mutton monger!
CONSTABLE.
Hold, sir John, hold!
DOLL.
[To the Priest.] I pray thee, sweet hear, be quiet. I was but sitting to drink a pot of ale with him, even as kind a man as ever I met with.
HARPOOLE.
Thou art a thief, I warrant thee.
WROTHAM.
Then I am but as thou hast been in thy days. Let’s not be ashamed of our trade; the King has been a thief himself.
DOLL.
Come, be quiet. Hast thou sped?
WROTHAM.
I have, wench: here be crowns, yfaith.
DOLL.
Come, let’s be all friends then.
CONSTABLE.
Well said, mistress Dorothy, yfaith.
HARPOOLE.
Thou art the maddest priest that ever I met with.
WROTHAM.
Give me thy hand, thou art as good a fellow. I am a singer, a drinker, a bencher, a wencher! I can say a mass, and kiss a lass! Faith, I have a parsonage, and because I would not be at too much charges, this wench serves me for a sexton.
HARPOOLE.
Well said, mad priest, we’ll in and be friends.
[Exeunt.]
ACT II. SCENE II. London. A room in the Axe Inn, without Bishop-gate.
[Enter sir Roger Acton, master Bourne, master Beverly, and William Murley the brewer of Dunstable.]
ACTON.
Now, master Murley, I am well assured
You know our arrant, and do like the cause,
Being a man affected as we are.
MURLEY.
Mary, God dild ye, dainty my dear! no master, good sir Roger Acton Knight, master Bourne, and master Beverly esquires, gentlemen, and justices of the peace — no master I, but plain William Murley, the brewer of Dunstable, your honest neighbour, and your friend, if ye be men of my profession.
BEVERLY.
Professed friends to Wickliffe, foes to Rome.
MURLEY.
Hold by me, lad; lean upon that staff, good master
Beverly: all of a house. Say your mind, say your mind.
ACTON.
You know our faction now is grown so great,
Throughout the realm, that it begins to smoke
Into the Clergy’s eyes, and the King’s ear.
High time it is that we were drawn to head,
Our general and officers appointed;
And wars, ye wot, will ask great store of coin.
Able to strength our action with your purse,
You are elected for a colonel
Over a regiment of fifteen bands.
MURLEY.
Fue, paltry, paltry! in and out, to and fro! be it more or less, upon occasion. Lord have mercy upon us, what a world is this! Sir Roger Acton, I am but a Dunstable man, a plain brewer, ye know: will lusty Cavaliering captains, gentlemen, come at my calling, go at my bidding? Dainty my dear, they’ll do a god of wax, a horse or cheese, a prick and a pudding. No, no, ye must appoint some lord, or knight at least, to that place.
BOURNE.
Why, master Murley, you shall be a Knight:
Were you not in election to be shrieve?
Have ye not past all offices but that?
Have ye not wealth to make your wife a lady?
I warrant you, my lord, our General
Bestows that honor on you at first sight.
MURLEY.
Mary, God dild ye, dainty my dear!
But tell me, who shall be our General?
Where’s the lord Cobham, sir John Old-castle,
That noble alms-giver, housekeeper, virtuous,
Religious gentleman? Come to me there, boys,
Come to me th
ere!
ACTON.
Why, who but he shall be our General?
MURLEY.
And shall he knight me, and make me colonel?
ACTON.
My word for that: sir William Murley, knight.
MURLEY.
Fellow sir Roger Acton, knight, all fellows — I mean in arms — how strong are we? how many partners? Our enemies beside the King are might: be it more or less upon occasion, reckon our force.
ACTON.
There are of us, our friends, and followers,
Three thousand and three hundred at the least;
Of northern lads four thousand, beside horse;
>From Kent there comes with sir John Old-castle
Seven thousand; then from London issue out,
Of masters, servants, strangers, prentices,
Forty odd thousands into Ficket field,
Where we appoint our special rendezvous.
MURLEY.
Fue, paltry, paltry, in and out, to and fro! Lord have
mercy upon us, what a world is this! Where’s that
Ficket field, sir Roger?
ACTON.
Behind saint Giles in the field near Holborne.
MURLEY.
Newgate, up Holborne, S. Giles in the field, and to
Tiborne: an old saw. For the day, for the day?
ACTON.
On Friday next, the fourteenth day of January.
MURLEY.
Tyllie vallie, trust me never if I have any liking of that
day! fue, paltry, paltry! Friday, quoth a! Dismal day!
Childermass day this year was Friday.
BEVERLY.
Nay, master Murley, if you observe the days,
We make some question of your constancy.
All days are like to men resolved in right.
MURLEY.
Say Amen, and say no more; but say, and hold,
master Beverly: Friday next, and Ficket field,
and William Murley, and his merry men shall be
all one. I have half a score jades that draw my
beer carts,
And every jade shall bear a knave,
And every knave shall wear a jack,
And every jack shall have a skull,
And every skull shall shew a spear,
And every spear shall kill a foe
At Ficket field, at Ficket field.
John and Tom, and Dick and Hodge,
And Rafe and Robin, William & George,
And all my knaves shall fight like men,
At Ficket field on Friday next.
BOURNE.
What sum of money mean you to disburse?
MURLEY.
It may be modestly, decently, soberly, and handsomely
I may bring five hundred pound.
ACTON.
Five hundred, man! five thousand’s not enough!
A hundred thousand will not pay our men
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 183